The Serpent Speaks In Shadow
by celtic-lyre
Summary: I'm trapped in the shadow cast by your sunlight." - Grima speaks to Eowyn in a tortured vignette.


Your face, it floats  
Haunting me, hurting me  
unintentionally  
In daylight, in dark  
Yet when I'm around you  
I am the ghost  
Watching you, wanting you  
While you look straight through me  
  
You call me snake, and recoil from my touch, as a horse will shy at a  
serpent in the grass. But do you not know that snakes were long considered  
wise creatures, honored messengers entrusted with the darkest secrets of  
the Gods? Our scales are strong, the only armor that exists in the kingdom  
of beasts, and our fangs are sharp and coated with poison so potent that  
men still use it, for they can create nothing better.  
Even so, serpents have weaknesses. We are cold, and require heat from an  
outside source - be it celestial orb or fellow creature - to warm us.  
I found that source in you, Eowyn, for you light a fire in my veins that  
rivals the heat of the sun itself. Yet to me you are always cold, colder  
than shadow itself, and so I am forced to retreat to the shadows in order  
to gather the warmth that I lack.  
  
I have a forked tongue, it is true, and I split my words, the better to tie  
knots in the thoughts of men. But you are a lady, my Lady, and to you my  
tongue tells only truth. You believe that I deceive you, weaving webs of  
flattery to gain your trust, and through it your uncle's throne. You want  
to believe this, for it is a far easier plot to swallow than the thought  
that my compliments might be sincere. You cannot bear the thought that your  
skin might be soiled by the stare of a serpent, your beauty besmirched by  
the words of a worm.  
You call me snake, yet you are the one who spits poison, my Lady.  
  
Do you think I have not tried to forget you?  
I have drowned myself in spirits and worse; struggling vainly to purge  
myself of this passion that burns inside of me with worse fire than the  
rough liquor your men quaff. I have cleansed myself, if one can call the  
methods I used clean. But then, anything seems clean in comparison to my  
lust for you, does it not?  
  
I have spent fortunes on...substitutions, let us call them. I shall not  
offend your delicate ears by listing what artificial means I used to ease  
the need for you. But all was for naught. After all my efforts, still you  
linger in the back of my mind, a presence as distinctive as the slither of  
true steel or the faded scent of summer flowers. Like some twisted reverse  
of Pandora's box, I try vainly to shut memories of you away in the darkest  
depths of my thoughts. Yet always I am driven, possessed by torment, to  
break open the box and unleash my demons again.  
  
I have never forgotten one thing about you, my Lady. Each venomous word is  
saved, pressed into my heart with a hiss, and I drink its sweet poison  
again and again. I remember the softness of your cheek, and your warm  
breath against my fingers, the wild smell of your hair. Each turn of your  
head, the fold of your gown, the tapping your boots make against the stone,  
all of these impressions I lock away, and remember.  
I do not remember by choice, my Lady, but because I cannot forget.  
Every atom's  
Imprinted with you  
As it swirls through  
The abyss of my heart  
I'm never rid of you  
  
  
You stain my subconscious as ink stains my hands; these pale, cold hands  
that repulse you so when they touch your skin. You recoil from my touch as  
if it burns you, but it is you who burn me, as frost will burn with a cold  
so intense it feels like flame. Have you seen the feet of the Riders who  
have been bitten by hoarfrost, Lady? Their feet are black, their skin  
killed by cold, poisoned with ice. So I have turned black under the chill  
of your contempt.  
  
  
  
Red leaves shimmer  
Blood-  
stained glass panes  
caught in the twisting frames of dark branches  
I'm trapped in the shadow  
Cast by your sunlight  
  
It is autumn now, the fall of the year...and of the Rohirrim. The time of  
your people is waning, and soon the Horse-Lords will fall, and the last of  
the Line of Eorl will wither on the grass. Soon winter will come, and then  
who will warm you, Lady? You are a creature of ice, yet a living heart  
beats within you no matter how you try to hide it. Blood must be warm, and  
even heated by your constant fury you cannot stand the coming cold long. It  
is autumn, the time of year when the leaves turn. But to whom will you  
turn, Eowyn? You must choose soon.  
  
For I cannot save you if you will not let me. You must call upon the  
darkness outside you as well as within, for while you stand in the light, I  
cannot help you. Darkness is my domain.  
  
Call to me, my Eowyn, and I will come. Close your eyes to the light, shut  
your heart from the sun, and embrace the dark. For only then can you be  
saved. 


End file.
